Death of a Ghost
“Well now, perhaps you wouldn’t mind sitting down and telling us clearly and concisely in your own words just exactly how you did it and why.’ The Inspector’s slow voice sounded startlingly matter-of-fact in the room which still tingled and vibrated with the dramatic eloquence of Max Fustian’s announcement. Oddly enough the drama became more intense, more serious, the difference between the real thing and a play, and the constable sitting at one end of the long mahogany table, his helmet placed carefully in front of him, breathed heavily as he waited, pencil poised, to take down from dictation.
Apart from the Inspector and the self-accused man the room also contained Mr Campion, lounging carelessly against the bookcase, his fair head bent and his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
The light seemed irritatingly bad and the atmosphere of the room cold and unventilated.
Max was excited, not to say exalted. There were feverish spots of colour in his sallow cheeks and his eyes were unusually bright.
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